‘I don’t agree.’ Eugene, who had been sitting reading at the end of the table, seeming oblivious of the conversations going on around him, lowered his book. ‘You seem to me an admirable surrogate parent. Kind, thoughtful, loving: what more could a child want?’ He looked a little uncomfortable in the silence that greeted this remark. ‘I shall go and prepare myself for a day at the easel.’ He departed with dignity.
Constance was moved. ‘I don’t remember anyone paying me a nicer compliment.’ Then she looked gloomy. ‘I do hope it doesn’t turn out that Liddy has appendicitis.’
‘This is the section recently restored to fruit.’ I waved my arm over an area planted with young currant bushes. ‘On the wall behind we have fan-trained apricots, peaches and morello cherries, and espaliered apples.’
I turned my back on Timsy who was winking at me as he rested on his spade a few yards away. He was pretending to spread manure on the beds. Usually he could not be enticed from his still but the influx of new audiences for his ‘Irishness’ had proved irresistible and often I found myself in direct competition with him. As soon as he caught anyone’s eye he became loquacious and the visitors were distracted by the demands of civility, which required attending to us both. Timsy wore a filthy Aran jersey and told anyone who would listen that it was his grandmother’s pattern. Before they could nod politely and look away he would fix them with his bloodshot eyes and expose grimy teeth in a nauseating smile while explaining that the different patterns had evolved because the fishermen of Aran needed to be able to identify their kin when the drowned corpses were brought ashore. Dangling over the jersey Timsy wore a pendant in the shape of a shamrock and without pausing for breath he would go on to describe how St Patrick on first arriving in Ireland had plucked the three-leafed plant from the ground and used it to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity. On his finger Timsy sported a claddagh ring. He embellished with rolling eyeballs the story of the Galway girl who had fallen in love with a Spanish sailor, a survivor of the wreck of the Armada. The sailor had made a ring with two hands holding a heart surmounted by a crown, symbolizing love, loyalty and friendship, which sentiments were cherished in the bosoms of all born and bred Irish as demonstrated by the ubiquity of the ornament. Timsy happened to have a cousin who was a craftsman in gold and who could sometimes be persuaded for an insignificant sum to hammer out a tasteful high-class version. Likewise of the shamrock pendant.
When Timsy sensed he held his audience in his palm he would fetch an ancient set of bagpipes from the greenhouse and set up a hideous wailing containing not one true note to conclude the performance. Since Timsy had a louder voice, a ferocious geniality, an unstoppable flow of talk and absolutely no sense of shame I was usually obliged to wait until he had finished his act and had been round collecting praise, orders and tips, bent double with simplicity, gratitude and bogus charm.
‘Over here we have gooseberries—’
‘What steps have you taken to prevent peach leaf curl?’ interrupted a woman with a large bottom and the penetrating vowels of a well-bred English accent.
‘Top of t’e morning to ye all,’ began Timsy.
I cut in quickly before more than a few had turned their heads. ‘I’ve been spraying with Bordeaux mixture at fortnightly intervals since January. Over here raspberry canes—’
‘Which varieties?’ It was the Englishwoman again.
‘Um …’ I turned my head on one side to read the nearest labels. ‘Malling Jewel. Glen Cova—’
‘Érin go brágh!’ cried Timsy, advancing. ‘Which means, yer honours, Oireland for ever!’
The Englishwoman was not to be distracted from important business. ‘And which do you find most resistant to cane spot?’
‘Oh … er, Malling Jewel.’
‘Really? You do surprise me.’ She gave a superior smile. I sensed some sympathy for me among the other visitors. They were bored by the catechism and the accent sounded excessively sharp in the open air.
‘Now here we have strawberries.’ I indicated, with pride, six perfectly straight rows of exquisitely green rosettes.
‘Oh dear.’ Oxford accent gave me a pitying smile. ‘Mildew already, I see. I don’t think they’ll come to anything. Naturally with such a damp climate you can’t hope for much.’
‘Irish strawberries are second to none for flavour,’ I said, perhaps a little too combatively. The crowd stirred, sensing war.
‘Obviously you have never tasted our English strawberries’ – the Oxford accent became rebarbative – ‘or you would not make such an assertion.’
Timsy was resorting to desperate measures. ‘If ye peep round now in t’at corner where shtands t’e speal – t’at’ll be a scythe to yer honours – ye may be fortunate enough to glimpse a wee maneen, no bigger t’an a dog, t’at is a leprechaun.’
As was to be expected the group swivelled as one but I was so thrilled to be taken for Irish that I conceded the battle at once.
‘Does it mean I’ve picked up the brogue?’ I asked Constance later as we sat in the drawing room with a well-deserved glass of wine.
‘Not quite that, perhaps. But a certain lilt. It’s unavoidable. I’m sure you’d lose it after five minutes of being in England.’
‘I hope not.’
‘You don’t mean you want to sound like a mackerel-snapper?’
‘I’ve never heard that term before.’
‘Oh, pejorative names for the Irish are legion. Barks, bog-trotters, micks, salt-water turkeys – that’s American, meaning just off the ship – flannel mouths – meaning insincere, you know – dogans, teagues: oh, I could go on and on.’
‘None the less I’m delighted to be mistaken for one of you. I do so love it here.’
‘Goodness knows why when we’ve worked you almost to death between us.’ She held up her glass. ‘Let’s drink to the day I put that advertisement in the newspaper. I could never have guessed then that you would come and put us all right.’
‘That’s rather overstating it. For one thing, we aren’t right, we’re short of seven thousand pounds.’ And, I thought but did not say, of all of us in the house only Flavia had been made undeniably happier by anything I had done. Tidying drawing rooms is comparatively easy. Lives are intractable, unmanageable things.
‘We’ll find it somewhere. We’ll sell something, put up the prices in the tea-room, run that gardening school you told Mr O’Brien about. Why not?’
The setting sun gleamed faintly, throwing cloud shadows across the yellow damask. The silver threads of a spider’s web hanging from a lustre of the chandelier drifted into view. Constance perhaps was happier too. She was certainly more optimistic. Our friendship was a reward out of all proportion to the work I had put in as housekeeper. I was going to miss her terribly.
‘I’ve had a marvellous time.’
Constance who had been in the act of raising her glass to her lips, looked at me over the rim. ‘That has a valedictory sound.’
‘I’m afraid I must hand in my notice – and soon.’
‘You couldn’t think of staying just as a friend? I could try to get another housekeeper. You say you’re happy here. I know it’s selfish of me but I dread the idea of your going.’
‘I’d love to stay but … there are things … Of course we’ll keep in touch. You could come and stay in London.’
‘That would be lovely. But it won’t be the same.’ She ran her finger and thumb up and down the stem of her wine glass several times, her expression thoughtful, before saying, ‘Bobbie, I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but is it Kit? Are you going to marry him and live in Norfolk and have beautiful children and breed dogs?’
‘No.’ We looked at each other. She smiled briefly then glanced away, obviously afraid of seeming inquisitive. ‘It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Con. I do, absolutely.’
‘Well, then I must say it, if you’ll forgive me. I really hope it isn’t. Kit, I mean.’ Constance took a deep breath and spoke rapidly, her face flushing. ‘Beca
use all day he’s been paying a great deal of attention to Jasmine. Flirting’s hardly the word for it. Seducing would be more like it. And I’ve just seen them walk past the window together. Arm in arm!’ I looked at Constance’s indignant face and could not help laughing. Constance laughed too, with relief. ‘I’m so glad you don’t mind. I’ve been feeling really furious with him. I was afraid you’d be hurt. And that would be so cruel after that last awful man—Oh, Bobbie, I’ve just had a thought. You’re not going back to England because of Burgo?’
‘No! That’s well and truly past. I hardly ever think of him. And when I do I’m neither angry nor unhappy. I feel an affection for him still, and for the good times we had, but that’s all.’
‘Thank goodness! I know you consider yourself equally to blame for the affair but I think he treated you badly. Honestly, I don’t know why we bother with men at all. They’re almost all of them so selfish and faithless. Their loves are as insubstantial as gossamer. An efficient sperm bank would be much more satisfactory.’ Her attention was caught by two figures at the French windows. Kit and Jasmine had cupped their hands round their faces to see in, smiling roguishly. Kit rattled at the handle. ‘The key isn’t here,’ mouthed Constance. She gestured energetically. ‘You’ll have to go round. I suppose I’ll go to hell for that lie,’ she muttered as they went away. ‘Actually it’s in my pocket. But they looked so pleased with themselves I couldn’t stand it. The bare-faced effrontery! When only the other day he was on his knees to you. Does he think you won’t notice?’
‘I rather think I’m supposed to notice. It’s my punishment. But I’m hoping they’ll like each another.’
‘You never were even the smallest bit in love with him?’
I sighed. ‘I tried hard to be. But efforts of that kind never work, do they? I remember you said that love comes unbidden. The trouble is it seems to have a thoroughly malign sense of humour, selecting the most unsuitable people possible.’ I stopped and pulled my thoughts into line, seeing that Constance looked puzzled. ‘I hope Kit’ll be good to Jazzy and put the ghastly Teddy out of her mind before he gets bored with Lydia again.’
‘If it’s your career that’s the problem, I can understand it. You’re not using your intellect as you should be, there’s no denying that. But you could get a job in Dublin and come back here for weekends. Or write a book.’
‘Mm. I’m afraid that wouldn’t be … the solution.’
‘So you’re going back to England because you feel you need a rest. Or a change of scene?’
‘I’d enjoy a weekend in London certainly. But taken all in all I prefer the country to the town.’ I saw that Constance was perplexed but reluctant to press me further. ‘Con.’ I took a deep breath. ‘If I let you into a great, great secret—’
‘Hello, Aunt Connie, Bobbie.’ Flavia came in and kissed us both. ‘Friday. At last. I can’t wait for tomorrow. I’ve made a string so I can hang my order pad on a belt round my waist, look!’ She showed us a plait of red wool. ‘I’m going to put my pencil behind my ear.’
‘That will be very elegant, darling,’ said Constance. ‘Do you think you might scrub your fingernails? People might be put off by so much inkyness.’
‘I’ll do it at once. I’ll just put back the book I borrowed about Japanese tea ceremonies. Oh, I forgot, I’ve got to have a Japanese costume for Monday.’
‘I know, don’t tell me,’ groaned Constance. ‘It’s that wretched International Week.’
Flavia looked surprised. ‘I thought it was the sort of thing you like. You’re always saying we ought to be citizens of the world.’
‘Yes, well, in principle I do approve.’ She looked at me as Flavia disappeared into the library. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Perhaps this isn’t the moment—’
‘Do look!’ Flavia returned from the library, carrying an empty Coca-Cola bottle, a plastic bag containing crusts and a tube of paper that had once held Garibaldi biscuits. ‘Someone’s had a picnic on Daddy’s desk. There’s cheese squashed into the carpet and crumbs everywhere!’
‘Would you believe it?’ said Constance, exasperated. ‘And everyone seemed so nice! Though there was that man who sat on Finn’s bed and bounced up and down to see if it was comfortable. And a woman who opened the linen cupboards and inspected the sheets. I didn’t quite like to ask them not to. After all, they’ve paid to look round.’
‘I’ll get a dustpan and clean up the mess,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to encourage people to treat the library as a cafeteria. They might start cooking sausages on the hearth.’
‘I’ll fetch it.’ Flavia ran off.
‘I’ll lay the dining table, shall I?’ asked Constance. ‘It’s already seven o’clock.’
‘Oh, yes, do. I hadn’t realized it was so late.’
The library, being west-facing, caught the last of the day’s light. The sky was gold and red, promising a fine morning to follow. Before the opening Constance and I had repainted the patched and flaking fronts of the shelves and the fluted pilasters in the original dark seagreen. It had taken days as we had stopped frequently to browse among the books but the improvement was dramatic. A blue opaline vase of primroses stood on the desk beside the blotter and inkstand, which had been pushed aside to make room for the picnic. I heard Flavia return with the dustpan and brush.
‘Look. A squashed currant on the cushion.’ I was bending over the sofa which had loose covers of blue linen that had faded to grey. ‘I can scrape it off with my thumbnail, I think, without it leaving a mark. I dread to think what your father would say if he knew. It’s a good thing he isn’t here—’
‘Ah, but he is. How does it feel to be caught red-handed?’
The shock of hearing his voice so unexpectedly made the blood rush inwards to my heart. I turned round quickly. There he was, exactly as he had been in my thoughts and dreams almost every minute of every day since he had gone away.
How could it have been otherwise? I had been living in the place where he had been born and spent most of his life. I had sat at his table, walked through his rooms, seen the same mountains, fields and trees, smelt the bog myrtle and the gorse and, when the wind was in the west, the salt of the ocean that must all be as familiar to him as the turf smoke that infused every lungful of air we breathed. Every day I had seen his likeness in the faces of his children and his sister and in the portraits of his ancestors. I had stood in his bedroom looking out across the demesne as he must so often have done, wondering what the future might hold, what was best to be done. I had dusted his books, which had told their own tale of the man to whom they belonged. I had taken care of everything that was his and, because they were his, I had loved them with passion. All my reasoning, all my attempts to assert my will, to be master of myself, had come to nothing. It had been futile to try to protect myself from the unhappiness that must come.
The angles of his face were sharp; his eyes beneath dark brows were deep-set, intelligent and storm-grey. There was a smile in them which disappeared as we looked at each other.
I tried to joke. ‘It feels criminal.’
‘How are you?’
‘All right. The same. What about you?’
‘Things are just the same with me.’
Thus we confirmed our love for each other. It was all we allowed ourselves and it was pointless – yet precious.
‘Constance telephoned me last night about the Quill boy. I thought I’d better come.’ This was an explanation, an apology for his presence. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Asleep up in Violet’s old room.’
‘And Liddy? Is she back from school?’
‘Ten minutes ago. I don’t know how serious it is, Liddy’s attachment to him.’
‘His being here is serious for all of us. He must be got away to a place of safety. I knew his father. A good man. And the boy’s young enough to make a new beginning.’ He looked down, then back at my face. ‘A new beginning,’ he repeated. ‘How many must one make in this life, I won
der?’
There was a pause. Then I said, ‘You left me a book. Yeats. I’ve loved it.’
‘It was an impulse. Foolish. But I’m glad you like it.’
‘It has your bookplate inside the cover. Perhaps I ought to return it before I leave.’
‘No. Keep it. It isn’t much, after all.’
To my dismay, I felt my eyes fill with tears.
‘Finn, darling.’ Constance had entered the library. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest.’ She put up her face to kiss him. How I envied her that polite brotherly peck. ‘I’m awfully pleased you’re here. Aren’t you, Bobbie?’
‘Awfully.’ I knelt to sweep the crumbs into my hand.
FORTY-NINE
While Constance and I cooked dinner Finn and Danny talked in the library. Liddy walked round and round the kitchen, getting in everyone’s way, eating the cheese as fast as we grated it and taking spoonfuls of the raspberry jam reserved for the canary pudding.
‘Darling Liddy, leave it alone,’ I said, exasperated. ‘There won’t be enough for the rest of us and it’s Colonel Molesworth’s favourite. It’ll be a stretch to make it go round as it is.’
‘Oh, damn! Is he coming to dinner?’
‘Yes, and Father Deglan. I thought you liked the colonel.’
‘I do but if we have visitors it means Danny can’t eat with us. Can Danny and I have supper on our own in my room, Aunt Connie?’
‘I think we’d better ask your father.’
‘I keep telling you, it’s nothing but a sham, your feminism. As soon as there’s a remotely important question to be answered you drop right back into female subservience. Why should Dad decide everything? He’s always so strict. I bet he’ll say Danny has to go tomorrow.’
Liddy grumbled on while nibbling at anything we took our eyes off for a second. I remembered how hungry being happily in love makes one and how the reverse is true. I looked at the grey sludge that was the beginning of a turnip gratin with disfavour.
Moonshine Page 70
